FALLING IN LOVE WITH MY OLD HOUSE: Feeling Like a Mail-order Bride

The idea of mail-order brides has long intrigued me.

What kind of woman chooses that path for herself? What circumstances cause her to walk willingly toward the unknown?

How unloved—or unlovely—must she feel to make such choice?

How much loneliness does it take to make commitment to a stranger look appealing?

Whatever the details, the fact remains that some women have willingly responded to something akin to a blind date—with the expectation that their dating days would be over; perhaps before they even began.

Other times, it was the women who initiated the transaction, looking for companionship, stability, perhaps even status. I’ve often wondered if their hope of romance had already been extinguished.

Nevertheless, each woman began her journey with a choice. A commitment.

Perhaps little else.

Her “everyday” routine would evolve as she became familiar with her new husband, home, and community. Would he become her companion? Would the house become her sanctuary? Would the neighbors become her friends?

Would a marriage of convenience and contract become one of intimacy, even love?

Only time would tell.

Since we bought our small-town Victorian three months ago, I’ve experienced an avalanche of emotions and questions toward the old gal.

I’ve felt like a mail-order bride during those first few months with her stranger-husband.

What, pray tell, have I done?

Why couldn’t my dreams have come true?

You may be admirable, but you’re not what I wanted.

This isn’t the way I saw things playing out.

(Deep breath)

This reality was my choice.

It’s time to put aside the old dream and find a new one.

I’d like to be your friend, to hear your stories, to laugh at your unexpected antics.

I want to work alongside you, tap into your inner beauty. I want to complete you.

I want you to complete me.

This house of mine . . .  She made a pretty good first impression, but I didn’t want her. She wasn’t the house I’d designed, made purchases for, dreamed of.

She was a stranger.

Our first picture of our small-town Victorian in the snow

But the more I stripped away previous owners’ choices and let her breathe, the more I began to get a feel for who she really is.

Even still, the more I

• scrape wallpaper
• refinish floors
• clean away grime
• remove stray nails
• analyze old plumbing
• wash windows

the less of a stranger she becomes.

Someday I’m going to remove the layers of suffocating paint from her front door, but for now I’ll just enjoy her twist-it-to-ring doorbell since it never fails to make me smile—and gives me hope that one day we’ll be friends.

Click to ring my doorbell. Really!

This “new” house journey was a choice. I wish I could tell you it was a once-and-done choice, but it wasn’t. It’s been a hard transition. When I take on a project, I put 100% of myself into it, so when it’s over before it even begins, it’s like a gut punch, a stopped heart, a betrayal.

I’ll admit, every few weeks (sometimes days) I have to make the choice again. I have to keep refining the new dream. I have to practice gratitude for this amazing place I get to call “home.”

I’m trying to learn stories about her and the previous owners in her 109-year history. I’m reminding myself to laugh—even though it would have been easier to cry when the upstairs bathroom plumbing leaked through the downstairs kitchen light fixture—twice . . . in two weeks. I’m grateful the fix was fairly easy and inexpensive, and that my Renaissance Man had the skills to handle it.

Click on the picture to read about this old farm table.

There’s not a single project (or room) that is finished in this house, but we’re making progress. We’ve made lots of improvements with many, many more to go, but we’re not going to get in a hurry. We’re going to do things right.

This house has already seen enough quick fixes to last a lifetime.

No “decorating” here yet, but the newly-installed recessed paneled wainscot in the Master Bedroom is ready for paint.

Tomorrow we’ll tackle this room. It’s going to be Renaissance Man’s office, and we need to get him out of temporary quarters as quickly as possible.

I can see it now . . . white painted plank walls, stained plank ceiling (maybe?), stained door and fireplace mantel, plantation desk, trophy mounts on the walls . . .

Here’s to finding that inner beauty. In the house, but mostly in me.

Dearest friends . . .

I hope tomorrow morning when you wake up, you will see the Light in everything. And not only in the sunrise, but in the places that are harder to find, like in the hallways where you are certain you are only passing time, and the gritty gold dust floating between the floor and the blinds, and every little thing that catches your eye—I hope tomorrow morning when you wake up you will see the Light in everything.

Morgan Harper Nichols

Follow @smalltownvictorian on Instagram

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